“Eggplant,” he says, at two in the morning.
“What if I carved an eggplant
and made it look exactly the same inside as outside.”
“What would you carve it from?” I ask.
I already told you. Eggplant.”
His eyes roll back, his mind still caught
in the penumbra of his inspiration.
He has been having artistic inspiration all night long.
Now that he suspects his last joint is welded,
his last stone drilled and carved and smoothed,
he is regretting not creating
that one last great piece.
For hours, his arms reach up
in perfect pantomime
joining wood to stone,
stitching paper to frames.
“See that shadow behind Lisa’s head?” he asks me.
“Well, bring it over here and put it on top,
then take the bed rail off and add it to the bottom.”
When he sleeps, his lips move.
Words almost connected come out half-digested.
Hands reach out and clutch.
“Oh, it’s gone,” he says. Over and over,
reaching out for each thing almost grasped.
For NaPoWriMo day four, we are to write a poem based on a dream.